


The Long Way Home

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Consent, Gay Robots, Giant Robots, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Oral Sex, Robots, Sexual Fantasy, Stripping, mild alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift is used to being told what to do by others.  But now he’s found enough trust in Ratchet—and enough security in himself—to want to try taking the initiative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [extension_cord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/gifts), [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> First up this fic is dedicated to extension_cord and homos_in_disguise on the occasion of their long awaited wedding. Congratulations!
> 
> Secondly the most difficult part of this story was finding NAMES for the fic and the chapters so I suggest everyone pay a visit to youtube to listen to “Living River,” the album by Rawlins Cross. YES, I am a Maritimer, NO, I make no apologies.
> 
> Thirdly, since my crystal ball says the questions are coming: This fic takes us up to the events of Issue 16. There WILL be more. The next one will be set during and/or after Empire of Stone. I am still deciding whether to start a new series or keep the same numbering and just call the next one #8, but either way, yes, there’s going to be more.

Chapter One: Through It All

Night duty shifts were always a devil’s bargain. The Lost Light was quiet, with only minimal staff on the bridge: Mainframe at the controls, Blaster on comms, Highbrow fiddling with the navigation suite. Drift paced the back of the room, going out of his mind with boredom. He’d almost pray for something to do, except that _something to do_ would mean a problem or worse, an emergency, and it was better for everyone if the _Lost Light_ remained trouble-free.

But Primus, was he _bored._

Boredom was a bigger problem for Drift than it was for most of the other crew members. When Swerve got bored, he played stupid pranks. When Whirl got bored, things tended to explode. When Rodimus got bored, Drift got roped into helping with the latest morale-building exercise. But when Drift got bored, his thoughts always went to the area at the bottom of the ship—the sub-sub-basement—and the mechanism imprisoned there.

Drift wished Rodimus had told Prowl no. Unfortunately, Prowl was the faction second-in-command, and militaries were based on subordinates following their superiors’ orders. All told, Drift wasn’t sure if Rodimus agreeing to Prowl’s order was good or bad. What he was certain of was that the Autobots, for all their kinder, gentler image, were every bit as much a military organization as the Decepticons were. 

When Drift wasn’t thinking about Overlord, he was thinking about the Autobots, and whether he’d made a terrible mistake. Swapping one army for another—was that really the answer to his problems? Because these days it seemed more and more as though he’d traded doing horrible things for the Decepticons for doing horrible things for the Autobots. He thought about Delphi, and Temptoria, and how he was very good at doing horrible things. They came to him easily. Too easily.

Drift had considered himself a changed mechanism, but lately he’d started thinking that really, when it came right down to it, he hadn’t changed very much at all.

And now, if Overlord got loose, he’d kill everyone on the ship. Drift was under no illusions as to how he’d fare up against Overlord. Drift might be one of Cybertron’s more infamous fighters, but Overlord was a Phase Sixer. Phase Sixers were on a completely different scale. Drift’s kills were in the thousands. Overlord’s were in the billions. There would be no contest between them.

But Drift had nightmares where he stood and watched Overlord kill Ratchet. And Rodimus. And everyone else. And though Rodimus had agreed to do what Prowl said, Drift felt as though the situation were his fault. 

_I couldn’t tell Prowl no. I couldn’t tell Rodimus no. I’m just a soldier. Just like I was for Megatron._

It occurred to Drift that he had two problems. Overlord was only one of them. He was going to have to trust that Rodimus and Chromedome knew what they were doing. 

What he thought he was doing with the Autobots…that was a different matter altogether. 

And it was something he didn’t want to consider right now. Drift tried to ignore his increasing suspicion that becoming an Autobot had been a hasty mistake, something done to please Rodimus and Springer, a choice based on a desire to fit in rather than a personal identification with a cause. It was almost enough to make him recant and take off his badge, except…

… _Ratchet_.

Would Ratchet want him if he wasn’t an Autobot? Would Ultra Magnus let him stay on the _Lost Light_ if he took off his badge? Would his own belly-gazing and self-doubt jeopardize his fledgling relationship? What even was the selfish thing: pretending to be a loyal Autobot for Ratchet and Rodimus’ sake, or removing the badge and hurting or leaving the people he cared about most?

He didn’t want to think about this tonight. He was bored and confused and lonely and yes, he was hurting. He needed a distraction, desperately. 

Drift’s optics fell on Blaster, and an idea crossed his mind. It wasn’t something appropriate for the shipwide comms, though. Drift activated his personal comm and sent a text message, unsure of whether the recipient would be able to answer a real-time call.

_Ratchet? You on duty?_

A few moments later, a reply came back. _Nope. I’m at Swerve’s. You want to come down?_

Did he ever. _Can’t. I’m on duty shift._

_Too bad. Swerve is saying tonight’s the, and I quote, “official Lost Light hot wax and headlight competition.” He’s tossing top-of-the-line polish out to everyone in the bar._

Drift groaned. _Do I have to come down there and be the heavy? Is someone complaining that it’s inappropriate?_ Well, he’d wanted something to do. This event, however ridiculous, might be it.

_I don’t think there’s anything in the Autobot Code specifically outlawing it, and no, there’s been no complaints, and if there are, they’re not your problem._

_It might not be illegal, but I bet Ultra Magnus would consider it conduct unbecoming._ Drift still wasn’t sure what he should do. He didn’t want to ruin everybody’s fun, but should he act like the command officer he was supposed to be? Should he say he was just there to keep an eye on things and make sure the event didn’t get out of hand? It would give him a distraction. Better, it would give him an excuse to see Ratchet. But he wasn’t sure he really wanted to be in an environment where mechs were parading around, flashing their headlights and inviting the rest of the crew to ogle them.

_Then it’s a good thing Magnus is recharging._

_How do you know that?_

_Because you’re on duty, and Rodimus is…_

_Rodimus is what?_ Drift inquired when the sentence remained unfinished.

Rodimus _is half-lit on engex and dancing on the bar_.

Great. Drift definitely didn’t want to interfere with that. _No thanks. If Magnus is asleep, this ship needs one responsible officer awake._

_Hey, kid. You’re not jealous I’m down here, are you?_

Drift thought about that. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of Hot Wax Night, but he didn’t care if other mechs chose to participate as long as nobody expected him to. And he knew Ratchet wouldn’t be taking any of those other speedsters back to his berth.

_No. I trust you not to touch._

_No worries. A couple coats on you and there isn’t a bot in this place who could come close to you. Shame you’re on duty._

Drift gawked at his comm. Moments later, he peeked over his shoulder at Mainframe, Blaster, and Highbrow. They were all too busy with their work—well, Highbrow’s work looked suspiciously like the four hundred and forty eighth level of _Agitated Bolthawks_ , but the navigational controls had been set some time ago, and Mainframe would notice if the _Lost Light_ were deviating from course. Drift decided to trust Highbrow to end his game if he had real work to do, and returned his attention to Ratchet. 

_I, um, I don’t think I’d like dancing on the bar._ Drift was torn between feeling flattered by Ratchet’s obvious appreciation, and wanting to squirm at the idea of anyone else looking at him with thoughts of interface on their mind. He still wasn’t entirely certain he liked fragging in general; it really only appealed when Ratchet was involved.

_Who said anything about the bar? A couple coats on you and I’d spend the whole night giving you increasingly persuasive reasons not to leave your room._

Drift’s cooling fans kicked on.

Thinking fast, he activated the auto-clean feature in the bridge’s ventilation system. The sound wasn’t terribly noisy, but it was loud enough that it usually only ran during slow night cycles like this one. It was also loud enough to hide the sound of Drift’s active fans.

He was tempted to ask Ratchet what form his persuasive reasons might take, except that his imagination was already doing a really great job of reminding him just how convincing Ratchet’s hands, and tongue, and cable, could be. 

_You should go get some recharge,_ Drift commed back, struggling to keep his fans at a reasonable speed.

_You want me out of this bar. Drift, if you think I’m going to touch any of this waxed-up flash, I promise I…_

_No, I want you able to stay awake when I get off shift. Or do your persuasive reasons not hold up when it isn’t rest cycle any more?_

A pause. It struck Drift how surreal it was for him to be sending, and receiving, increasingly flirtatious comms. His usual discomfort at the topic of interface had faded away quickly. Now all he felt was…well. Hot, bothered, and eager for his duty shift to be over already. 

Drift reminded himself that…how had Ratchet put it? Some professional medical language stating that in a new relationship it was both normal and healthy for the bots involved to spend a lot of time fragging each other’s brain modules into stasis. 

Yeah. This activity might feel new and weird to Drift, but it was perfectly normal for a bot in a relationship. A bot like him.

 _These reasons are applicable around the clock,_ Ratchet answered.

_Glad to hear. Now see if you can snag some of that wax._

_Drift?_

_This is strictly a private show,_ Drift commed back before he lost his nerve.

Silence. Then: _Can I have the code to your hab suite?_

Drift grinned. Gave it.

_I’ll leave the wax in yours, and be waiting for you in mine._

He wasn’t going to be thinking about Overlord, or the philosophical implications of being an Autobot, any more for the rest of his shift. He was going to be thinking about Ratchet sound asleep in his berth, and the show he was going to give the Chief Medical Officer as soon as he got off duty.

#

This was _not_ the appropriate use for a Spectralist ceremonial cape.

The garment was strictly for use during formal Spectralist ceremonies. Fabric wasn’t common on Cybertron and the cape hadn’t been cheap. Drift hadn’t cared. He’d spent so much of his life just happy to have enough fuel that now, once his basic survival needs had been met, any more wealth seemed unnecessary. He’d bought the finest garment available because he could. It seemed wrong to be cheap in matters of faith.

Now, though, he wasn’t on his way to, or from, a formal Spectralist ceremony. He was on his way from his hab suite to Ratchet’s and he didn’t want everyone in the corridors to see that his frame had been polished to a degree that would put a wind dancer to shame. He’d gone all out with the detailing, including tinted paint highlights from the cabinet in his quarters and the glossy sealing spray that he wasn’t sure why he’d brought with him on the _Lost Light_. His chrome had been polished, his joints had been oiled, and he looked like heat on wheels. 

But the long cape covered him from neck to ankle. He’d passed a few bots in the halls and, unlike the last time he’d come down this way with even a cursory waxing, nobody was commenting on his attractiveness. He thought he heard Jackpot muttering that the third-in-command was a weirdo and Hoist owed him ten credits, but other than that, he received only stares and silence from the mechs he passed. It was as though they hadn’t even noticed that he’d shined his helm and face; or maybe they thought it was part of the ceremonial dress, a religious thing, blasphemous to interpret in any kind of sexual way. Drift didn’t care. The point was nobody was looking at him.

His wax job was for Ratchet only. 

Drift stopped in front of Ratchet’s suite and knocked, waiting to be let in. He heard movement inside: Ratchet’s slow, steady footsteps approaching the door. 

Then, much to his frustration, Atomizer came around the corner. Drift held his head up and fixed his gaze straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Atomizer’s presence even though he could feel the other mech’s gaze crawling all over him. He reminded himself that Atomizer couldn’t see his frame and wasn’t checking him out. There was nothing to be freaked out about. 

From the corner of his optic, though, he could see Atomizer’s optics narrowing with disapproval. Atomizer didn’t like him—never had—but still Drift felt his spark shrink when people looked at him that way. Like trash. Like scum. It made his spark cringe, as though it wanted to crawl away and hide.

And it made his fuel pump beat faster, his tanks to seethe with rage, his lines to pulse with fury and battle stims until he could pound that look off their faces, until he could beat some respect into them, until he could pump laser charges into their smoking shattered frames and make them sorry they’d ever looked at him as though he wasn’t just as good as they were, when in fact he was _better_ …

His body quivered from holding back his urge to violence. He could practically _taste_ Atomizer’s fuel in his mouth. His palms itched to hold his swords.

Ratchet answered the door.

And Drift, ever conscious of Atomizer in the hallway, said loudly, “I’d like to talk to you about accepting the gifts of Primus into your life!”

Ratchet scowled. Drift felt relief when he heard Atomizer snort and keep walking. Drift realized, too late, that while he’d successfully convinced Atomizer he was here, wearing this cape, for the sole purpose of proselytizing (and not for, say, fragging the CMO like some promiscuous gutter tramp), he might also have convinced Ratchet. Drift looked at Ratchet questioningly.

Ratchet rolled his optics, but stepped back to let Drift in.

Relieved, Drift stepped into the CMO’s quarters. 


	2. When My Ship Comes In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFCon! Think I can sleep? Not a chance. Will try to sleep on the plane*
> 
> *lol good luck, as soon as I drift off, a little voice in my head goes !!!YOU'RE FLYING!!! and by the time I convince it I'm *not* the pilot, I'm awake again.

Chapter Two: When My Ship Comes In

“That’s quite a show you put on for Atomizer,” Ratchet said, looking at the door.

Drift immediately felt guilty. Why had he felt the need to posture as though the reason he were here at Ratchet’s door dressed in his Spectralist cape was for a discussion on religion? Why had he felt the need to justify his presence in Ratchet’s quarters to Atomizer at all?

 _Why hadn’t he just said that he was here to frag the mech he was courting, and if Atomizer had a problem with that, he could go frag_ himself _for all Drift cared?_

Drift squirmed. He’d thought he’d been protecting the relationship by keeping it secret. Keeping it special. Not letting tawdry rumours spread throughout the ship until he and Ratchet had a chance to figure out what they were to each other. Not letting Ratchet’s career be dragged down by his association with a former Decepticon, former addict, former patient.

Now, though, it was pretty obvious that he and Ratchet were both very serious about each other. Surely it was time to tell the others.

_You’re not just keeping quiet because of Rodimus, are you?_

If anything, Drift ought to be relieved. Rodimus would surely stop his annoying habit of turning friendly jokes into something too much like flirting for Drift’s comfort if he knew Drift were involved with another mech. Yet somehow, Drift just felt more guilty still. Rodimus would surely have stopped it already if Drift had simply asked him to stop—but Drift hadn’t, preferring to duck the question every time rather than admit outright he wasn’t interested in Rodimus that way. 

Why? Why didn’t he just trust his best friend to…to stay his best friend if he said no?

Even as he asked the question, Drift felt absolutely certain that Rodimus would hate him if he ever found out that Drift would rather frag the Chief Medical Officer than the captain.

Drift wasn’t sure why he felt that way. Part of him suspected his fear was completely irrational. But the louder, more insistent part of his mind told him he didn’t want to get Ratchet only to lose Rodimus, and wouldn’t it be better if he just kept his mouth shut and left things the way they were right now? This current situation…maybe it wasn’t _perfect_ , but it was certainly better than anything Drift deserved. Right now he had a lover who genuinely cared for him and a best friend who was always up for a laugh and let him have an actual position ofresponsibility, and all the respect that entailed. Drift knew better than to gamble with a good thing.

So he pulled a smile onto his face and said lightly, “Not half as good as the show you’re gonna get if you’d just have a seat.”

Ratchet’s frown stayed on his lips a moment too long. Long enough for Drift’s smile to flag; long enough for Drift to worry that maybe Ratchet really _was_ worried about Drift’s secrecy, or tiring of feeling he had to hide their relationship. 

But then the corners of Ratchet’s mouth tilted upwards in a way that seemed reserved for Drift alone.

The Chief Medical Officer eased himself down to a sitting position on the side of his berth. “So you’re not just wearing that robe for the good of my immortal spark?” he murmured.

Drift sashayed closer, feeling the silky fabric swish against his streamlined curves. His engine thrummed with unfamiliar vibrations, and Drift felt his temperature heat as he realized that he was becoming increasingly turned on. There was something about the slithering sensation of soft, sleek cloth against his overpolished frame that cranked his crankshaft. And he was here with _Ratchet_ , and he could smell the faint scent of medbay that always clung to the Chief Medical Officer, and he knew Ratchet was self-conscious about it, but Drift _loved_ it. Since Rodion he’d associated the scent with being clean and safe and well-fueled. 

Since Hedonia he’d started to associate it with affection and love and, yes, pleasure.

Since Kublai Three he’d started to associate it with _mind-blowing ecstasy_ and _absolute trust_.

Drift walked across the room, feeling as though he were walking on air. He was happy to be here and yet anticipation urged him to hurry, to get to the pleasures to come. He resisted as much as he was able, drawing out the tension, savouring each moment in turn. Still, there was only so much that could fairly be asked of a mech. It was forever and no time at all before he stood right in front of Ratchet, his hands on the medic’s shoulders.

“No peeking,” Drift whispered.

Then he slid one knee against the side of Ratchet’s hip and, using Ratchet’s shoulders for support, slid the other knee up onto the berth on the opposite side. The cape billowed, settling around his aft and draping over Ratchet’s knees. 

Drift leaned forward. His mouth met Ratchet’s in an impossibly sweet kiss. 

In his past, Drift had taken a lot of drugs to try to achieve the feeling he had right now. His body was keyed up, trembling with anticipation. His spark was warm and mellow, secure and contented. His mind still had that floating sensation, and yet his consciousness was still very much present in his body and aware of what was going on around him. Dear Primus, did he _ever_ want to be aware of his frame when Ratchet got those sensitive medic hands on his body.

The mindboggling revelation that he actually really loved interface threatened to blur his senses, and he pushed it away. He could meditate on all the ramifications later. Right now, he wanted his thoughts and senses sharp so he could thoroughly enjoy every bit of what was going to happen here.

“Give me your hand,” Drift suggested. He still felt a little odd, being bold enough to give an order in the berth.

Ratchet complied without hesitation, holding his right hand up between their bodies.

Drift grasped Ratchet’s wrist and slid the medic’s hand through the gap in his cloak. He guided Ratchet’s hand to his thigh, where he knew he’d laid the wax on heavy. 

Ratchet’s hand settled in place. The Chief Medical Officer rubbed his fingers experimentally. Drift grinned as he watched Ratchet’s optics widen. Those sensitive medic fingers could feel the heavy polish, all right. Ratchet stroked Drift’s thigh, enjoying the glide of his fingertips over the glossy surface, and Drift felt a sensation that might have been pride.

Dear Primus. He was _proud_ of his frame and the reaction it could get from Ratchet. He _wanted_ his body to turn his lover’s crankshaft.

Drift captured Ratchet’s other hand and guided it under the cloak to his other thigh.

Ratchet moaned his appreciation. “Drift,” he whispered, his hands busy exploring the shiny surface under his palms. “Drift, may I _see_?”

The next moan Drift heard was his own.

He’d expected Ratchet’s hands to wander, but he’d figured Ratchet would slide them backwards to grope his aft. He hadn’t expected Ratchet to bend his elbows tightly and bring his hands forward. They now rested on Drift’s belly, with the thumbs moving in soft fanning motions that enticed more than tickled. It activated a series of sensors Drift had never given much thought to before, but now—and how had he missed this?—now it felt as though they were part of a network that ended in his anterior nub. Why did every little twinge on his abdomen make his valve pulse in sympathy? He didn’t know, but he did know he wasn’t scared, even though he already knew firsthand that Ratchet could play his whole body like an instrument. 

He trusted Ratchet, and he wanted this.

Drift remembered their shore leave on Kublai Three, how his little show in the bay of Ratchet’s ambulance mode had ended, and how much fun he’d had deliberately leading Ratchet on. He was really ready for it now, all shined up with this cloak hiding his body. He grinned, probably a bit wolfishly, but Ratchet’s optics glittered at the sight of Drift’s predatory smile.

“Sure,” Drift said, and tugged on the cloak, just enough to reveal one perfectly lacquered thigh snugged up against Ratchet’s leg.

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. He pulled his left hand out from under the cloak and moved it to Drift’s thigh, where it hovered, about an inch above that satin finish. Drift derived about two seconds of pleasure from Ratchet’s stunned expression. That was approximately how long it took before his mind registered his frame lodging a protest at losing the touch of one of Ratchet’s hands, and the motion of the other. Ratchet’s right hand rested against Drift’s belly, perfectly still.

Drift couldn’t have that. He took Ratchet’s left wrist in his own grip and tugged; then he glanced up at Ratchet, asking silently for permission to move it. Ratchet nodded, his mouth still open. 

Drift gently laid the hand over his visible thigh.

Ratchet rested there for an agonizing instant before his fingers began to rub, testing the quality of the wax finish. A groan of appreciation emanated from Ratchet’s mouth.

Drift, well, he appreciated when Ratchet’s hands got to work. Ratchet’s right hand slid to Drift’s other thigh, the covered one, and then Ratchet set both hands to stroking and massaging in unison. 

Drift released Ratchet’s wrist and arched his back, letting the movement of the cloak suggest what his body might look like underneath. Ratchet’s touch intensified, and Drift let out a few groans of his own.

Distantly, it occurred to Drift that Ratchet ought to be rewarded for his attentions. He clasped his left hand over the now-gaping opening of the cloak at mid-chest height, and used the other hand to push it back around his waist, so that both his legs and much of his abdomen were exposed. Ratchet let out a louder moan and leaned closer, whispering in Drift’s audio. “You are so beautiful. So beautiful.”

Drift kissed his cheek. He leaned his weight forward, wriggling closer to Ratchet. It might spoil the view, but Drift would take that risk to get his panels pressed against Ratchet’s and…ohhh.

Ohhh, Ratchet’s panels were so warm. They felt so good… Drift felt his face overheat and his fans click on at the idea that he wanted what was coming, wanted it so much. And when he arched his back and let his cloak slip open, it wasn’t because Ratchet expected it, wasn’t because he needed to get Ratchet warmed up so he could get this over with and get on with his night. It was because…well…truth be told, Drift wasn’t sure if he did it because it made him feel powerful to put that needy expression on Ratchet’s face and the power turned Drift on, or whether Ratchet’s heat turned Drift on and made him arch in appreciation, and Ratchet’s excitement was just a convenient byproduct. The truth was somewhere in the middle, and Drift would give some thought to it later.

Hopefully much later.

Right now Drift was a lot more interested in moving against Ratchet, rubbing his belly against the Chief Medical Officer’s abdomen, grinding his panel against Ratchet’s. He started out trying to see what reactions he could coax out of Ratchet, but soon found his entire concentration used up just trying to comprehend the sensations Ratchet’s body elicited in his own. Somebody was mewling; it took a moment for Drift to realize the sound was coming from his own mouth, but when his vocalizer fell silent, the sound continued, lower-pitched now. Finally Drift understood they were both responsible. He shifted against Ratchet and mewed again, listening to their voices mingle in a wordless pleasure-song.

Drift wanted, so badly, to tell Ratchet what the CMO did to his body, to his spark. His engines revved just _thinking_ about whispering in Ratchet’s audio what he wanted to do to Ratchet, and what Ratchet wanted to do to him.

But Ratchet didn’t like dirty talk.

Drift bit his lip, trying to hold it in, but all of a sudden his mind was flooded with words, each detailing an explicit fantasy. Either Ratchet read it in his expression or that whining noise he heard wasn’t just coming from his fans, but however Ratchet guessed it, the CMO spoke. “What’s wrong, Drift?”

Drift groaned, unable to think of what to say while his body kept getting hotter.

“Talk to me.” 

Which was exactly what Drift wanted to do, but…

“So much I wanna say,” Drift panted. “What I want you to do to me. What I want to do to you. What I want…what I want us to do _together_.”

Ratchet sighed, and his hands sought out the sweet spots on Drift’s shoulders. The sensory input was Ratchet’s favourite way of non-verbally coaxing Drift to give him more of whatever he was doing.

“But you don’t like dirty talk,” Drift said, pulling back just far enough to look Ratchet in the optics.

“What?” Ratchet’s hands traced Drift’s spinal strut, and Drift couldn’t help it; he arched his back and moaned. Primus, it was impossible to have a serious conversation when Ratchet was doing that. Drift, however, was not about to ask Ratchet to stop.

“You don’t like it,” Drift panted, even as he ground against Ratchet harder. He wanted his armour off, and he wanted it off now. “You tell me to stop when I try to say something sexy.”

“Never said I don’t like to listen to you.” Drift felt gratified that Ratchet seemed a little out of breath himself. “I don’t like when you talk bad about yourself. And I don’t like wondering if you’re only saying what you think I want to hear. You should talk…talk about what you’d like to do. Talk about how good different stuff makes you feel.” Ratchet’s engine roared. “Talk about what you want to share with me tonight. Heh. You can talk about that all you please.”

So it was like fragging, then. Something Drift had thought he knew all about until Ratchet came along, threw out Drift’s rulebook, and replaced it with something new.

“Okay,” Drift gasped. His mind was spinning. “You…I was up on the bridge doing my work and suddenly I started thinking about you, and wanting to touch you.” Drift paused to drink cool air into his intakes, and gnaw on the side of Ratchet’s helm while he was at it.

“Go on,” Ratchet muttered gruffly.

“I got so hot my fans came on,” Drift confessed. “Up on the bridge in front of everyone.”

Ratchet’s fans growled their obvious appreciation.

“I wanted to…you make me…” Drift bowed his head, feeling the temperature in his face spike high with a mixture of arousal and shame. His next words came out as a whisper. “I want to interface. So much.”

“Good,” Ratchet breathed, running his lips over Drift’s neck. “That’s good.”

The sensation sent a tingle coursing through Drift’s neural net and straight to his interface array. His valve pulsed; his cable tensed. He was cranked up like he couldn’t believe, and Ratchet was right here—his to touch, his to taste, his to take…no, to _share_. Drift ran his hands over Ratchet’s broad, strong shoulders. “Have I told you how much your body turns me on?”

Much to Drift’s surprise, Ratchet pulled away. Drift’s senses went on alert; he’d been expecting Ratchet to pull him closer, maybe even grope him a bit. “Heh,” Ratchet said, looking at something over Drift’s shoulder—or, as Drift suspected, looking at _nothing_ just so he wouldn’t have to look Drift in the optics. “You don’t have to say stuff like _that_ , kid.”

Drift felt shocked, because he’d meant every word. “You think I’m lying?” he asked incredulously.

Ratchet pulled the corners of his lips up into a hollow smile. “Your intentions were sweet, Drift, but I know I’m a box on wheels, and I’ve made my peace with that.”

Drift watched Ratchet ruefully shaking his head and realized, suddenly, that Ratchet didn’t see himself the way Drift had always seen him. Drift had never imagined that Ratchet didn’t consider his frame as beautiful and appealing as it had always been to Drift. For the first time, Drift realized that despite Ratchet’s admirable professional accomplishments, Ratchet seemed to have no appreciation whatsoever for the person he was when he wasn’t being the Chief Medical Officer.

“You told me to stop telling you things just because I thought you wanted to hear them, and I _did_.” Drift leaned closer, placing his hand under Ratchet’s chin, making Ratchet meet his gaze. “Do you not understand that I mean every word I say? You _do things_ to me, Ratchet, and it makes me want to do stuff I…” Drift broke off, feeling his faceplates heating. He bit his lip, collecting his thoughts. “Stuff I never thought I’d want,” he said in a whisper, “and now can’t seem to get enough of, as long as it’s with you.” He flashed his optics. “Let me make that clear. Not with anyone else. Just you.”

Ratchet peered up at Drift. “I, ah…I…” The Chief Medical Officer also seemed to be having difficulty with words. “I still don’t know why I’m so lucky.”

Luck had nothing to do with it where Drift was concerned. Ratchet had worked damned hard to save Drift’s life—a life nobody else valued. _Care_ and _Ratchet_ were almost indistinguishable in Drift’s early thoughts. Care and Ratchet meant Drift was safe to explore and experience pleasure.

As another wave of arousal pulsed through his systems, Drift’s optics flickered. He’d never let himself go like this with anyone else. 

“Because you can take me right out of control,” Drift whispered in Ratchet’s audio, “and I feel so safe that I don’t need to think of anything else but how good we are together.”

“Mmm.” Ratchet’s lips touched Drift’s, and for a while no words were said. Eventually, when the kiss broke, their fans ran in unison at a significantly elevated speed. “Trust me to try something?” Ratchet murmured.

The last time Drift had trusted Ratchet to try something, he’d ended up discovering an entirely new way to ‘face someone in the back of Ratchet’s alt mode. After a lifetime of instinctively distrusting everyone, it was so new to Drift that now, with Ratchet, he’d immediately and impulsively said yes.


	3. A Little of Your Lovin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing I was at TFCon now. If you are, have a great time! If you're not, here's a consolation prize...
> 
> ...inspired by the TOWER of printed zines that include my story and comic script. Holy crap, to my fellow writers and artists, the editors and organizers who put the whole project together, and everyone who showed their support by pre-ordering.
> 
> (In case anyone who sees this wants one and didn't preorder, there might be a few left after the others have shipped, so watch this space: http://dratchetzine.tumblr.com)
> 
> ***
> 
> A few actual notes on this chapter. Past-tense Drift/Gasket and thoughts/discussion about not wanting to do sexual things or not enjoying sexual things. The actual content of the chapter is big-time consensual and big-time enjoyable for both parties.

  
Chapter Three: A Little of Your Lovin’

“You’re going to have to get off my lap,” Ratchet said, looking somewhat rueful at the thought.

Drift didn’t particularly care for the idea himself. He’d much rather Ratchet lose his codpiece armour and pop Drift’s hatch too. Drift could rub his valve against Ratchet’s cable, getting it nice and slick before taking a ride on it. Primus, maybe he could rub his own cable against Ratchet’s for a while first. How would _that_ feel? Why hadn’t they tried that before? 

Drift tamped down his rampaging fantasies and reminded himself that he’d already agreed to let Ratchet try something. That cable-rubbing thing, though, he’d definitely remember that for later. In the meantime, he was just going to have to trust that Ratchet’s plan would make getting off his lap worthwhile.

Drift braced his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders and stretched out his left leg. Sure, he’d get up, but he planned to take his sweet time doing it. He winced as cold air replaced warm ambulance against his inner thigh. “This better be worth it.”

“You want me to write you a guarantee?” Ratchet said, but his intakes rasped as Drift put his foot on the ground and leaned his weight onto it, lifting his body away from Ratchet.

“I want you to tell me why I’m not still on your lap,” Drift said as he put his other foot on the ground.

“Pull me up,” Ratchet said, “and I’ll show you where you should go.”

Drift almost asked if he was going to get a ride in the back of Ratchet’s vehicle mode again—never mind that Ratchet’s alt mode couldn’t drive very far in the confines of the hab suite. Drift wouldn’t care if they were in a parking lot as long as he could get another round with Ratchet’s diagnostic tendrils making interesting diagnoses as to the temperature, moisture level, and caliper strength of his valve…not to mention the sensitivity of each and every node inside it…

But after Drift tugged Ratchet to his feet, the CMO didn’t transform. Instead, Ratchet turned around and rearranged a surprising number of pillows that Drift hadn’t even noticed since entering the room. The Circle of Light would _not_ have approved of a warrior failing to notice the details of his surroundings, particularly not when the reason was the fixation of said warrior on fragging-or-being-fragged. It had been easy to agree with the celibate Circle back when Drift hadn’t thought he liked interfacing. Now, Drift was walking a path of moderation, and that meant not letting situational awareness fly out of his head every time Ratchet smiled.

This was not going to be easy.

“There you go,” Ratchet said. Drift noted that he still held a big pillow in his left hand. His right patted the edge of the berth. “Your aft goes here.”

Drift looked at the pillow nest and couldn’t resist. “So, my sweet aft perched on the edge of your berth.”

Ratchet cocked an optic ridge, and Drift gulped, wondering if he’d done something wrong, but after a moment, Ratchet nodded. Apparently Drift’s comment hadn’t strayed over Ratchet’s dirty-talk line. Drift tried to figure out why, as he placed said sweet, fraggable aft where Ratchet had indicated. As he sat, he realized that he actually _wanted_ Ratchet to think about his aft that way. He _liked_ that idea. He was proud of having an aft that Ratchet found attractive, and he’d polished it up so Ratchet would find it even more enticing…and he’d put a cape over it so nobody else would see it, because it wasn’t _for_ them.

The cape was a bit of a problem. Drift leaned back against the pillows and felt the cape tightening around his neck. He didn’t like the sensation of being choked, so he tried to tug the cape away from his back, only to end up with the cloth snarled around his left forearm.

Ratchet noticed.

Ratchet noticed, and he gently untangled the cape and spread it out above Drift’s head, so that it wasn’t putting pressure on his neck any longer.

“Can you get any more perfect?” Drift mumbled, not sure whether he spoke his thoughts out loud until he saw Ratchet’s lips quirk.

“I don’t know,” the Chief Medical Officer said. “Shall we find out?”

Ratchet’s joints weren’t what they used to be. Drift could hear them creak as Ratchet lowered himself to one knee. Drift was on the verge of telling Ratchet not to stress himself when a kiss on his belly silenced him.

If Ratchet thought he was fit to do that sort of thing, Drift wasn’t going to argue with his judgment. Feeling Ratchet press kisses to his belly emphasized to Drift that he had made the right choice.

Drift stretched his arms above his head, giving Ratchet full access to his body. Ratchet was leaning over him, which was nice, but it would be better if Ratchet could get closer, which he couldn’t do as long as Drift’s legs were in the way. There seemed to be an easy fix to that. Drift spread his legs, and Ratchet leaned in, licking and teasing at Drift’s abdomen. It tickled, and Drift squirmed, laughing. Ratchet chuckled as he nipped playfully at Drift’s armour housing.

Yes, Drift liked having Ratchet close. He particularly liked the way he could feel the heat from Ratchet’s frame against his shiny inner thighs. It was almost worth the discomfort that crept into his legs from holding them in this unnatural position for so long.

Finally, though, the strain of holding his legs stretched open got to be a bit much. Drift moved his left knee in just a little way, resting it against Ratchet’s shoulder.

Ratchet’s mouth—his teasing, teasing mouth—was currently tracing the seam between Drift’s pelvic armour and his inner right thigh, but Ratchet looked up when he felt the weight of Drift’s leg against his shoulder. “Is that comfortable?” the medic murmured.

Drift felt embarrassed. “I just…just need a rest.”

“Not what I asked.” Ratchet kissed his way over the less sensitive housing, and Drift whimpered. He wanted Ratchet’s mouth back where it was.

“Yeah,” Drift admitted. “It is comfortable.”

Ratchet relented. His lips caressed Drift’s thigh, and Drift relaxed into the touch. Yes, honesty was the best policy where Ratchet was concerned.

“You should do the other one,” Ratchet suggested, and Drift could feel his mouth move as he spoke.

Drape his legs over Ratchet’s shoulders as though Ratchet were…his footstool or something? It seemed disrespectful to Drift, but the suggestion, whispered against his transformation seam, was really difficult to ignore.

It would be a lot more comfortable.

And it was Ratchet’s idea.

Drift felt self-conscious as he lifted and bent first his left leg, then his right, settling them over Ratchet’s strong, stable shoulders. Ratchet was right. This _was_ a lot more comfortable. Ratchet’s frame helped take the stress off of Drift’s hip joints, now that he wasn’t doing all the work to keep his legs up and open. Drift was able to relax instead, and his knees flexed, giving Ratchet even more access to his panels while his feet rested against Ratchet’s back.

And Ratchet was taking full advantage of that access. Drift felt Ratchet’s lips pressing kisses to his inner thighs, then his abdomen, and he became increasingly aware of an anticipatory tingle growing beneath his armour. Drift was pretty sure he knew what was coming next, and from the moist sensation in his valve, his frame did too. He felt a bit embarrassed, and dimmed his optics when Ratchet’s clever fingers finally undid the catches of his armour. He wanted to lie back, relax, and enjoy this; he knew he’d be too shy to relax if he actually _watched_ Ratchet’s tongue dipping into his valve. 

Drift gazed into the darkness behind his optic glass and concentrated on his other senses. He could smell the comforting fragrance of hospital that clung to Ratchet everywhere he went. He liked the way the pillows were soft but also supportive, and so warm beneath his charged-up body. His frame was running so hot that the air around him felt cold, but the cozy cushions helped to counteract that and keep him from getting a chill. 

And he waited to feel Ratchet’s kiss against his valve.

Ratchet was teasing him, though. Nuzzling his cable. Rubbing his inner thighs. His poor anterior node felt swollen with anticipation. Where was Ratchet’s tongue?

There.

But not on his node. Or his valve. 

Drift’s optics activated just in time to see Ratchet kiss the tip of his cord, right where the jack was. The jack he hadn’t used until he took up with Ratchet.

It felt good in a way it shouldn’t. The sensation sent a shiver up Drift’s spinal strut. “Come on,” Drift said, his voice shaky. “Stop teasing and get on with it.”

Ratchet flashed Drift a roguish grin and picked up Drift’s cord in his lips.

That wasn’t what Drift had in mind, not at _all_. When Ratchet had asked Drift to _trust him to try something_ he couldn’t possibly have meant…

Except that the gentle suction on the cable’s very tip indicated that _yes_ , he’d meant exactly that.

Drift felt his faceplates heat uncomfortably. He squirmed, but Ratchet seemed to mistake the movement for excitement, because he wiggled his tongue against the tip of Drift’s jack. Drift froze. As though hypnotized, he watched the whole end section of his cord disappear into Ratchet’s mouth.

Ratchet’s optics were dim. He looked quite content, sucking softly on the tip, and Drift felt a morbid fascination to just keep watching.

_No_. 

“Don’t,” Drift choked out.

Ratchet stopped immediately. Drift’s cable dropped from Ratchet’s lips, but Ratchet caught it gently in cupped hands. His optics illuminated and he looked at Drift, listening for Drift’s next words.

Drift felt a sudden relief. Ratchet…he could always trust Ratchet to respect his words, to wait if he asked him to wait. Unfortunately, his cable was a treacherous thing that didn’t share his relief. It sent signals indicating that it actually wanted Ratchet’s lips right back where they were.

Guilt choked Drift’s throat for wanting such an awful thing.

“You okay, kid?” Ratchet asked. Scrap, and he looked worried now.

Drift nodded, not wanting Ratchet to be concerned about him.

“What happened there?” Ratchet inquired gently. “Talk to me.”

“Y…you shouldn’t,” Drift stammered. He could barely stand to look at the sight of his legs splayed wide over Ratchet’s strong shoulders, let alone Ratchet’s mouth on his cable.

“There’s only one reason I shouldn’t,” Ratchet said sternly, “and that’s if you don’t like it.” The medic snorted. “Look at me, kid.”

Drift could barely bring himself to meet Ratchet’s gaze.

“Is that what you’re telling me?” Ratchet demanded. “That you don’t like it?”

Drift felt hot air wafting from his vents, and yet still his face heated. “I, um…” He curled his hands into fists. He’d sworn never to lie to Ratchet. “It’s degrading,” he whispered. “You on your knees sucking cord. You shouldn’t have to.”

Ratchet frowned. “Okay, first, I _don’t_ have to. Last I remembered I got down here because I wanted to. Second, I don’t feel degraded in the least.” A wicked little grin played around his lips. “After all, it’s not _me_ who would’ve begging in the next few minutes if I’d have had my way.”

Drift felt his knees go weak. Just as well they were hooked over Ratchet’s shoulders and not supporting any weight. “It isn’t?” Drift would’ve begged to not have to do this thing if only he’d thought anyone would listen. 

Except that wasn’t entirely true. He’d done it for Ratchet. He’d actually kind of liked doing it for Ratchet. Was it so farfetched, then, to think Ratchet would want to do it for him?

Ratchet gently released Drift’s cable and massaged his inner thighs. “This is for you, Drift. It’s up to you. But it’s okay for you to like it, and it’s okay for you to ask me to keep going. And it’s okay for you not to like it, and it’s okay for you to ask me to do something else.”

“I don’t remember if I like it.” Drift blurted the words in a rush. “It’s been such a long time…and I was so high when I…but Gasket would…”

Ratchet nodded. “You’ve done it before, but a very long time ago, and your memories aren’t to be trusted.”

Drift nodded. 

“Can I help you remember?”

Primus help him. Drift still didn’t think he should be asking this—even if Ratchet didn’t mind, Drift wasn’t sure he deserved that kind of service—but his cable was extremely interested and Ratchet’s lips had felt incredible. 

Drift looked down at himself. Legs spread wide open, cable and valve exposed, body leaning back on a berth, frame polished to invite the optic…he looked as though he were built for fragging. And yet his current position was more like a king than a slave. He sat on a soft berth, reclining back on a pillow, while Ratchet was the one who knelt before him. Ratchet’s shoulders supported him. Ratchet’s hands caressed him. Ratchet was ready to bow his head to serve him, and all Drift needed to do was give the order…or grant the permission.

Drift was in an incredibly sexual position and yet he was the one in control. He thought of the new Crystal City and the priesthood of the Circle of Light. He thought of Wing and Axe and the others on their knees before the altar, and then he looked at Ratchet and felt as though he, Drift, were priest of a long-lost exotic faith that sought knowledge of divinity in the heightened ecstacies of overload.

It was the opposite of the celibate, self-denying Circle of Light and there was something about the very idea that made Drift’s frame shudder in arousal.

_Him_. Some sort of…of pleasure god, incarnate. By Primus, he was still wearing his cape.

Drift whimpered. Ratchet looked up sharply. 

Oh, and to imagine Ratchet of all people as a worshipper of such a faith.

“Oh, kid,” Ratchet groaned. “My knees won’t hold out all day, so if you’d rather think about it for a while, I ought to move.”

Drift swallowed. “I want it.” His lips felt numb. He still couldn’t believe this was happening to him. His consciousness….it had been a long time since he’d felt this disassociated during intimacy. It had been an escape hatch, before. Now…now Drift’s body threatened to catapult his mind into overload from the force of his _fantasies_ alone. 

Drift wondered if it were really possible to overload yourself just by thinking sexual thoughts. He’d have to ask Ratchet about that…

Later. _Much later_. Ratchet was leaning forward now, lifting Drift’s cord in his right hand.

He reached up with his left.

Drift slid his hand into Ratchet’s.

“Direct me however you like,” Ratchet whispered against Drift’s cord. Drift shuddered, swearing he could feel Ratchet’s lips move. And the whole while, Ratchet’s optics were locked on Drift’s.

Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand.

Ratchet gently took Drift’s jack back between his lips. He sucked lightly, still watching Drift, still needing to be certain Drift was okay with this.

Drift shivered. It felt good, he couldn’t deny it, and it was really happening, and he was going to find out how it felt to be on the receiving side, and…

Ratchet hesitated.

_Yes_ , Drift spelled out, his fingers clumsy as he signed chirolinguistic motions into Ratchet’s palm. _More_.

Ratchet suckled a little harder. His tongue swept over the tip of Drift’s jack again and Drift gasped.

_Good_? Ratchet signed.

“A-amazing,” Drift panted. Primus, it _was_. No wonder mechs liked doing this. It felt like being inside a valve—somewhere Drift’s cord definitely liked to be—except valves didn’t have soft, tender tongues reaching out and caressing your cable, seeking out all the tender sensors, teasing and lapping. Valves didn’t make snug seals and gently pull with careful suction, creating an entirely unique erotic sensation. 

Through a haze of pleasure, Drift realized he was thrusting with his hips. Ratchet’s head bobbed up and down. Drift suddenly remembered that being on the other end could be really uncomfortable if your partner thrusted too hard or too deep, and he flinched. Ratchet released him, and Drift moaned when the sensations vanished. He whimpered, writhing, unable to ask for more. He made animal sounds of need and hoped Ratchet would understand.

_Okay_? Ratchet signed.

_More please now please please…_

Ratchet chuckled. He sucked Drift’s now thoroughly moistened cord back into his mouth with a long, deep pull that looked as though he were enjoying some kind of crystallized candy treat. Drift whimpered at Ratchet’s sheer shamelessness. 

He tried very hard to keep his hips still this time. It wasn’t easy. Ratchet made him feel revved-up all over. His cable throbbed, crackling with building electrical charge. Drift tried to dampen the current, but then Ratchet took Drift’s cord so deep that his jack nudged the back of Ratchet’s throat and that little bit of pressure had Drift practically spitting sparks, he was so excited. Stopping now was going to be really uncomfortable. Drift hated that feeling of coming so close and then falling, unfulfilled, still hungry, still needing. He’d had more than enough of going hungry in his lifetime. He wanted to come to completion under Ratchet’s touch…

_Oh Pit no_.

How had he forgotten that _this_ kind of pleasure would end with him bleeding charge down Ratchet’s throat if he didn’t stop? Scrap, and that _hurt_. Drift didn’t want to do that to Ratchet. He’d have to stop. Soon. Not quite yet. But soon.

But it felt so good…

But soon…

But he was so close…

_Stop!_ Drift signed desperately.

Ratchet stopped, and just in time, too, because Drift felt a terrible pulse of energy that was beyond his control. Statics and sparks flew from his cord, but the energy grounded harmlessly in Ratchet’s hand.

Drift saw his wet cable lying in Ratchet’s palm and imagined what he must look like, spent and wrung out, splayed across the pillows, his valve on display. He whimpered with shame.

“Drift,” Ratchet murmured, as he staggered to his feet.

Drift moaned.

And then Ratchet was on the berth beside him, next to him, hugging him close, mussing up the pillows. Drift felt exposed and vulnerable, and he nestled close, clinging tightly to his mate. Ratchet kissed his helm, stroked his shoulders, wove their fingers together.

“I didn’t want to stop,” Drift choked. “I’m sorry, I almost…almost…”

“My throat can handle a little charge, kid,” Ratchet murmured.

Drift stiffened. Did Ratchet seriously not _care_ if Drift overloaded in his mouth? “You really are a pervert, did you know that?”

Ratchet lifted Drift’s chin and looked at him with concern.

Drift grinned.

Realizing he was joking, Ratchet smiled.


End file.
